Page 7 of Restored By the Mountain Man
She hesitates before waving it off. “I’m not a big breakfast girlie. I still need to return to Sweet Pines Bakery and stock up on those dangerously tasty croissants. One of those and a coffee is all I need.”
A small growl escapes as I access the blends. Shaking my head, I tell her, “You can’t sample all these on an empty stomach.”
“No worries. I’m not a lightweight. Trust me.” That damn smile.
Ignoring her excuse, I grab my walkie and switch to channel four. “Cynthia?”
Two seconds later, the radio crackles. “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”
“Please have the kitchen bring up a brunch assortment.” Zoe’s brows shoot to her head. Her mouth opens, and I know she plans to protest. “And have them choose items that align with the Autumn blends. Please.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hunter. I’ll have that brought up immediately,” Cynthia’s cheerful tone informs before the radio cuts out.
“Mr. Hunter,” she begins, but the formality stings.
“Ezra,” I insist.
A pause before her heavy sigh. “Ezra, truly. That is completely unnecessary.”
I ignore the shiver down my spine hearing my name on her lips.
“Not up for question,” I finalize. “I need your honest analysis of each batch. Last thing we need is you standing up and havingan unexpected reaction.” Her brow furrows before she attempts to argue. “You drove here, correct?”
Knowing where I’m going with this, her jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“I won’t have you compromised, driving back later.”
Before she can respond, Ansel, our kitchen manager, walks in with two other interns who set up the main table with a charcuterie board with assorted quality cheeses, smoked salmon, dark chocolates, candied nuts, and small fruit-based mini sampler desserts.
“Okay, fine,” she says, watching intently as the staff sets up the food. “I’m hungry. And damn it, I’m weak for a good char-coot.”
“A what?” I ask, bewildered.
She faces me, hands on her hips, and of course, smiling. “Charcuterie.” Her hand waves at the setup. “Char-coot. Get used to the term. You’re gonna hear it from me a lot.”
Leaving me with the uncomfortable notion of her and I speaking often enough at all that I’d have to get used to the ridiculous term, Zoe eagerly joins my staff, introducing herself as she samples different things. She asks Ansel questions and praises them for excellent choices in quality.
I want to rub the tightness in my chest away, but that would give away too much. I quietly observe, letting Ansel take over the tastings with the batches. This is where he thrives. Zoe’s eyes find mine occasionally. A question in them. Perhaps she thought I’d take the lead here, but I can’t.
Her spirit, that fire, it’s too much. I feel the heat of her flame viscerally, and I don’t like it. That’s a lie. And that’s the damn problem. I do like it. I feel drawn to it. To her.
My fists clench at my next invasive thought.
Not even when I first met Elizabeth did I have this pull to her.
Fuck no. We’re not doing that shit. Not now. Not ever.
I turn to disappear when Zoe’s curse fills the room.
“I mean, crap,” she says, grabbing napkins. “I’m so sorry. I have great hands,” she jokes. “But, sometimes, I have my clumsy moments.”
Whiskey coats the entire front of her navy dress. Ansel is about to blot her chest with more napkins.
“Ansel,” I bark, to which they both jump. “I got it.” I leave no room for arguments, and he knows it because he drops the napkins and backs away.
“I’ll just get the mop and clean this up,” he turns to leave.
“Oh, I can do that. It’s my fault, after all,” Zoe offers.
